The Sickness
by Avah
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is visited by a disturbed restaurant owner. While his customers are getting sick, Holmes is not in a healthy state of being either. Watson's POV.


Authors Note: Sorry my last story looked rushed. It wasn't, I was just making things more to the point. Anyways, I have another fic to write, and I really hope you'll like it. 

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            Holmes, I observed, was very quiet this morning. I am often prone to worry about him when he is not on a case. Any indication of his addiction makes the heart sad and bitter, but this morning I found that the cocaine drawer was in fact, closed. My companion was sitting in his chair with neither a pipe in his mouth nor a whisper on his lips. 

            "Good heavens Holmes!" I said rushing to his chair. His face was chalky white and beads of sweat were dripping from his brow. 

            "I'm afraid I must have caught something." He said shivering in his chair. He was still in his nightshirt, which was soaked from sweat. I saw that he had wrapped himself tightly in it.

            "Good God man, why didn't you wake me up?" I asked feeling his forehead; it was cool and clammy.  

            He has never been one to care for medical health. He uses cocaine, smokes something awful, and goes without meals at periods of a time. 

            "Do you feel very cold?" I asked him. 

" Dreadfully." Through have closed eyes he answered me.

"Get on the couch, I'll get some more blankets and light a fire. Hopefully you'll sweat your sickness out." (A/N this is good advice for a cold.)

Holmes did not object, but did not help me either. He was physically exhausted I saw, and probably could not think straight. I had to practically drag him to the couch as he complained how cold the house was. I asked him if he was properly warm, and he answered that he was feeling a bit dizzy.

"Perhaps if I give you a glass of water." I said. He lazily put his hand in the air.

"No, I shall be fine if I am left to sleep…now that I am warm." He whispered as a sweat drop slicked down his forehead.

"You should probably drink something, you loose a lot of fluids when you're sick." I said with a voice of a doctor. He didn't answer me but remained silent as I put a glass by his bed.

"I have to go out, I shall be back before lunch time. Rest yourself." I said. While walking downstairs I warned Mrs. Hudson of Holmes' sudden illness; then left for some business in Northern London.

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            When I returned to Baker Street, I saw that the blinds had been opened in my friend's window. I hoped with all my heart that it was not Holmes' doing, for when I had left him he looked as if moving a muscle would kill him. Hurrying up the door, I ran into Mrs. Hudson.

            "Good day Doctor Watson."

            "How is Holmes?" I asked giving her my cloak and hat.

            "Stubborn as a mule! He would not eat anything and he ordered me to leave the room while talking to his client. I told him he was not able to stand on his feet- but no-"

            "Client?" I said snapping out of my daze. "But he's caught a sickness the Devil would mercy!"

            "Yes I know, no common sense in him at all-" she responded indignantly.

            "Thank you Mrs. Hudson." I said my voice weighing with grief. No doubt Holmes could not resist the temptation of a mildly interesting case.

            I hesitated before opening the door. I could hear one loud, penetrating voice that could only sound like one of authority; and Holmes' voice, unnatural and weak from illness. Bringing my hand to the door I gave it a few soft knocks, and opened it slowly.

            "Good day doctor. I had a feeling you would be coming soon."

            I noticed how he did not address me as "Watson"; no doubt he knew I would play the role of a doctor. I gave him an intensely annoyed look.

            "You are unfit to be-"

            "Allow me to introduce Mr. Mortimer Stride. He has come here to seek my council." Said the detective. Holmes' eyes were clouded over with glee. 

            "How do you do doctor." Greeted a large, timid man. His mustache was crooked and a faded brown colour, which comes with age. The rest of his hair was white and brushed sleekly back. 

            "He has a rather interesting problem." My sick friend explained. "But perhaps you would prefer repeating it." He said to the man.

            "Of course. Anything to help." Stride said. "I own a small restaurant in town. Its business has always been spectacular, until recently." 

            I watched him rush his hands through his hair. 

            "It started happening a month ago, and since then my family has been living on my life savings. What little we have we put to good use, but this cannot go on any longer or we will starve. Let me get to the point. I live in a heavily populated area; a perfect place for any restaurant. It's small and brings in a lot of money. Because of this I have had many generous offers for its purchase. I refused them all. My restaurant is my life!"

            Holmes sat in his chair, his knees drawn up to his chin. He was looking a bit off colour, but he still held that spark of tranquil interest. 

            "Go on." He said closing his eyes.

            "I had a wonderful cook. Known him for years, he makes the best mead pie you'd ever taste! So I didn't believe the reports saying my customers were getting sick from my food. Upon investigation we saw the food was cooked through. The kitchen is very clean, as well as my kitchen staff. So, it can only be assumed there was some sort of mistake. But there were enough sick customers to prove that there was something wrong. I called in the police to investigate farther; they can only describe it as food poisoning, but they could not offer me any explanation of how our food was poisoned."

            A look of pain overcame Strides features.

            "The police made inquiries; they were so pushy and offensive half of the staff quit. Including my cook!" Stride said miserably. " We closed our doors. What else could we do? Someone must have been poisoning the food, and I am ruined because of it. I fear I shall never regain a good reputation. It has been our last resort to sell the restaurant and start over elsewhere." 

            Holmes opened his eyes slowly. 

            "Mr. Stride, you say there were many people offering you money…were there any particular group of people or person that seemed especially interested? Almost to the point of obsessive?" Asked Holmes.

            "Why yes sir. Mr. Miller, a friend of my daughter's, offered payment for the residence countless times. His offers were so frequent that my son had to request him to stop pestering us. It was a rather embarrassing affair." 

            "This Mr. Miller…how long has he been friends with your daughter?" Holmes asked getting up from his chair.

            "Almost all her life. They grew up together. In fact, she prefers that I sell it."

            "And what about your son?" I asked after copying his dialog in my book.

            "He's dead set against it! He was to inherent that restaurant. The tragic events have caused him unspeakable grief, as well as myself."

            Holmes stared out the window in silence as our client stewed in his misery. 

            "Mr. Stride, if you do not object I would like to interview your staff as well as your family. What would be a reliable time?" Asked Holmes.

            "Anytime after 3:00."

            Holmes clicked his tongue.

            "I must be off. Here's my address." Said Stride handing Holmes a card. " Perhaps you can save my business before I go bankrupt." 

            "I have no doubts that your problems will be cleared up." Holmes said closing the door behind Stride. As soon as Stride left Holmes collapsed on the couch, looking as worn as ever.

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            Authors Note: Chapter two will be posted as soon as I feel like writing more. I hope I came up with an original story; cliché's are the devil's tool. I hate cliché's.  


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